


you want it darker.

by wanderwithme (wanderlustt)



Category: The Last of Us
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Isekai!ish themes, Pining, Romance, TLOU universe but make it FANTASY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25290700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustt/pseuds/wanderwithme
Summary: "Let’s try somethin’ easier then. How old are you?”A pause. “Can you go easier?”“Jesus Christ.”“Nice to meet you too.”(In which you resurrect Joel Miller from the brink of death only to find yourself resurrecting feelings you should've never had.)*COMPLETE!
Relationships: Joel (The Last of Us)/Reader
Comments: 37
Kudos: 205





	1. if you are the healer, it means i'm broken and lame

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO, please read before proceeding!
> 
> this is my second tlou story and another excuse for me to write joel miller the happy ending he deserves, but before we jump into it i want to state that this DOES NOT have the same tone as the tlou universe--and there are fantasy elements in here, so please don't come into this story expecting any sort of emotional baggage....just pure fluff and fun....

“Holy shit.”

Owen pushes past the brush, “What is it?”

Abby points out into the distance—a clearing of snow on the lake, untouched and pristine. In the midst of it is a clump, skin-colored flesh, laying out in the open.

“That body—it just fell from the sky.”

He snorts, “Yeah right.” He studies the terrain—the winter tundra of Jackson—and catches sight of a cliff in the distance, not too far from the clearing. “Know what it is? It’s probably just a runner that’s fallen frozen from that ridge up there.” But when Abby doesn’t stop, he grabs her by the arm. “This is a trap and you know it. C’mon—you’re smarter than that.”

“I know what I saw, Owen,” she states, ripping her arm away.

“Yeah? You sure about that? What if that’s the point? What if—"

Abby snuffs whatever half-assed explanation he has and starts towards the body, snow lapping at her feet like sludge until she’s within vicinity. No jerky or erratic movements so far—no sign of being frostbitten or frozen either. Only when she comes to a full stop before _it_ does she realize the body belongs to a woman. Naked, breasts full, hair cut short to the shoulders in a jagged, uneven line.

“She looks dead,” says Owen, cocking his head to the side. "Like a corpse."

He nudges her gently with his boot, turning her on her side—revealing a back cut full of pink scars—before rolling on her back again. “Well, guess that answers that.” A curl of a smile forms on his face as he studies her form before looking around the vicinity to check for trackers. “There ya go. She’s actually alive. Curiosity sated. Now _let’s go_.”

"No." Abby takes a breath, feeling the punch of winter in her lungs as she places a single gloved hand onto your shoulder, “Hey, are you OK?”

No answer.

“If you’re alive, say something.”

With a breath so haggard like it’s been pulled through a strainer, you cough, “Weed.”

Abby glances back at Owen, whose face contorts. He’s trying to hold back a laugh, “Did she just say weed?”

Abby sighs, throwing her jacket over your body, “Damn druggie.” She starts dismantling what she saw earlier—that body hurtling through the sky—and chalks it up to tundric hallucinations. Like seeing an oasis in the desert, except it’s just an illusion of one from the dehydration. The same must apply to the cold. Surely that’s a thing, right?

“Oh come on. Weed is barely a drug. I can't even blame her—I’m overdue for a smoke too,” says Owen. “Anyway, let’s get going. It’ll get dark soon.”

But Abby pauses, resting one hand on the edge of your shoulder, “We can’t just leave her here.”

“And why not? She’s not one of us.”

Still, she can’t shake what she saw. “I can carry her,” says Abby, glancing out at the settlement in the distance. “Owen, cover me.”

He sighs, “The others aren’t gonna be happy about this.”

“I’ll deal with them later.”

*

You sleep for days to come. You sleep through nightmares, babbling under your breath—babbling so much in fact that Abby relocates you to the second floor of the lodge, where you rest alone by the fire lit. Mel keeps you in check, tells them you’re healthy despite being naked in the snow (shockingly not frostbitten), and that it shouldn’t be more than a few hours before you wake up again.

But you don’t.

You keep sleeping until they start forgetting about you. You keep sleeping until they stop talking about you. "Never thought I'd see Abby bring back a freeloader who can't even freeload right," says Owen, laughing--which somehow brings Abby to the conclusion that maybe she made a mistake. Maybe she didn't see you hurtling out the sky, a hundred miles an hour, only to fall into a bed of snow.

And so it goes. You sleep. You keep sleeping. You sleep some more.

You sleep until you’re awakened by sounds of gunshots and cries of agony from the basement floors below—

And then you jerk up, wide awake.

In a cold sweat, taking stock of your surroundings. A cabin in the woods, somewhere far, far away. You’re dressed in what looks like a pair of long johns, a henley, and a pair of old socks stained with sweat. You don’t know where you are, but you know it’s _cold_ —there’s snow outside—and you don’t know where you’ve come from, but you know you haven’t been touched.

You try to remember who brought you here, but all you remember are big, strong arms, and a face you can't recall.

" _Joel_!"

Outside the screaming, it's quiet now, which somehow makes you more anxious than the sound of gunshots as you crawl to your feet. Only to hear something clear up from below. Voices bellowing, another cry of agony, then silence.

" _Joel!_ "

When you peek out the door, everything is still. But you can still hear crying from below. A wail of agony that you follow—like a moth to flame until you get to the bottom step, door ajar.

There’s a corpse lying flat on the ground, blood pooling the ground. His face is smashed in like a rotting pumpkin, _oozing_. He’s not dead, but he’s practically there. You recognize that smell, so pungent and rancid it nearly brings you back to where you came.

But you know.

You know this is _exactly_ where you need to be.

As soon as you take a step forward, you hear the click of a gun behind your head.

“Don’t move.”

“ _Fuck my life_ ,” you croak. It’s been so long since you’ve spoken. So long since you’ve actually managed to muster the strength to say something or anything at all. As much as you want to turn around to face whatever captor is standing behind you, you don't want to get your head shot off. “Hey—let’s say we talk about this—"

“Hands up. On your knees.”

“Can I get a little more specificity? Hands up on my knees? Or hands up and _on my knees_?"

Something kicks you in the back of the knee, forcing you to kneel down, “Shut the fuck up. Fuckin’ wise guy over here.”

“Are you with them?” It’s another voice—another woman. She sounds more despondent, more nurturing. “Where are they?”

“I’m not with anyone,” you tell her, hoping she can understand the futility of your current situation. “I don’t even know how I got here.”

“She’s fuckin’ with us.”

You hear the click of the safety.

Instinctively, you put your hands up. Cold sweat kisses your neck, but you’re not afraid—not yet anyway. “Hey, we’re all friends here, right?” You say, softly, looking at the body on the floor. And when there’s no response, you start feeling a little more antsy. “I can help him.”

“Wait.” It’s the second woman’s voice again. She sounds more reassuring, more motherly? “Are you a medic?”

You consider it—wondering if you should lie, “Something like that.”

There’s a moment of silence as you glance around the room, trying to digest your surroundings—only to find another man passed out in the corner. What the fuck happened here? Where the hell are the people who brought you here? _Oh right_ , they probably forgot about you because you'd been _sleeping_.

“Help him.”

It’s the second voice, strangled and broken like it’s on the verge of splitting apart.

“Please.”

The gun’s been lowered. You glance over your shoulder to see two girls standing there. The one on the right is lanky, face splattered with blood. There’s a welt forming over her eyebrow that’s beginning to turn blue. Her eye is totally swollen. She looks rattled, as if the smallest blow of wind can send her sanity scattering to the wind.

You look back at the corpse on the ground. You know why you’re here now.

This is _exactly_ where you’re supposed to be.

"OK," you say, meeting her gaze before looking at the gun in her hand. "I'm--I'm gonna move towards him now, alright?"

You take her silence as consent as you crawl over to him on all fours, stopped when your knee makes contact with the puddle of blood under his face. Hand hovering over his face, you can feel the last vestiges of life escape him like sand through a funnel.

You hold your breath and close your eyes.

“What the hell are you doin’—”

“Ellie, wait.”

And then it happens.

Slowly, but surely, blood begins to pull back under skin. The bruising’s beginning to drain. That cut in his ear starts to fill again—bone, flesh, blood. _Skin_. It's like all the world is stopped, but time is rewinding right underneath your touch.

"What the fuck. What the fuck."

"What's...happening?"

“Hey, shush. I can't concen--ah, fuck me. Went too far back,” you say, jerking your hand back like it's been burned. He looks a little younger now, hair shorter. There’s less gray, more black. He looks a little more spry than before, though you can’t really tell—he’d been covered with blood, half-dead when you met him first.

The first girl immediately pushes you out of the way as you fall to the ground, “You’re welcome would be nice,” you mutter, cradling your arm.

“ Joel?” She says, voice quiet. “Joel, can you hear me?”

She feels for a pulse, eyes widening as she turns back to look at you.

“What the fuck is happening to you?” She says, looking at your hands.

Instinctively, you look down too, only to see them disappearing before your very eyes.

“I’m going to disappear now,” you sigh, watching your hands vanish to nothing as if a giant eraser were carving you to shreds. “Fuck my life.”

“Disappear?” She wrinkles her brows, but knows you’re not fucking with her. Because the proof is in the pudding. Or in this case—sitting right before her. “How—? Where are you going?”

“Beats me,” you mumble, watching your wrists vanish. “Hopefully somewhere warm—where there’s a beach. Preferably Santa Monica. Or the white-sand beaches of Maui.” You sigh. “But I never get to choose.”

Still, she stares at you in disbelief before lowering her gaze back at the man apparently named Joel.

The other girl kneels down before you, trying to grasp at your arms, only to fall through completely. “How do we find you again?” She asks, eyes filled with concern. She has a doe-eyed look about her, but you can tell whatever innocence she had once upon a time has been gone for a long time. “Where should we look for you?”

“Ugh, please don’t,” you tell her, looking back down at her gun. “As nice as this was—I really don’t wanna meet either of you again.”

Fair enough. She doesn’t fight you on that, “We can't just leave you."

You glance out the window at the frozen tundra, “Well, I prayed for the beach the last time and ended up on a frozen lake, so you should probably look for a body of water or something ‘cause that’s exactly what I’m gonna be praying for again.” Again, you pause. “But for my sake, I really do hope I end up in Maui.”

Before she gets a word in edgewise, you’re gone—and all that’s left is your henley and long john’s. There’s no proof you were even there to begin with and for a second, Dina is so startled she thinks she might’ve imagined it.

Ellie presses her face to Joel’s chest, feeling him take a breath, “He’s alive. He’s—breathing.”

Her face goes hot, tears swimming in her eyes before it starts falling down her cheeks in fat globs. She’s crying—she’s crying, and had it not been for the revelation that he’s alive, she surely would’ve noticed that the woman who saved him had vanished completely, flesh and bone and dust.

*

You’re falling.

It isn’t until you feel yourself consumed by something _crunchy_ that you realize you’re in a bed of leaves. It’s warm here, almost _too_ warm, and for a second, you actually think you might be on the white sand beaches of Maui, only to sit up and see that you’re nowhere close.

"UGH." You roll back into leaves. "JUST FOR ONCE. **_PLEASE_**. I would like to be in MAUI."

Before you sits a pond of some kind, covered in greens and foliage literally out the ass. It looks like something straight up out of a jungle, and had it not been for the massive T-Rex sculpture sitting before you, you would’ve probably assumed you were in the Amazon or something.

Oh, and you’re naked too—but that seems like a moot point considering the fact that you have no idea where the fuck you are. Not so surprisingly, you have no recollection of where you came from either, but that’s beside the point. You’re used to not-knowing; it’s part of the curse that you have, and while you struggled with it once upon a time, you’ve all but accepted it as a growing pain. You think, in the end, it might be beneficial to not know anything at all.

There's rustling, voices whispering in the distance.

“Holy shit, it’s you.”

You turn around to see a girl on a horse—hair tied up in a mussed-up bun. Next to her is some Asian guy toting a sawed-off shotgun.

You blink at her, trying to see if you recognize her. You don't, “Do I know you?”

“You...don’t remember me?” She doesn’t look hurt, just confused. “We met three months ago in the winter—"

The guy next to her snorts, “Why are you butt-ass naked?”

You look down—and indeed you are butt-ass naked. You roll back into the pile of leaves, trying to cover yourself whole. “Forget it. Just leave me here,” you sigh, hoping you’ll wake up somewhere far, far away from here—preferably on a beach.

“It’s not safe here,” says the girl, dismounting from her mare. “We’ve got runners around these parts.”

The guy arches a brow, “How _do_ you know her?"

The girl frowns, “She did us a favor once."

"Us?"

"Yes. Us. A favor."

“Can’t be that great of a favor if she doesn’t remember what it is,” he says.

“Shove it.” She grabs you by the wrist, hauling you up from your bed of leaves before removing her sweat-stained jacket and wrapping it around your shoulders. She beams at you. “I'm gonna take you to Jackson, alright?"

"Do I have a choice?"

She considers it, slowly, "No."

“I really want to fight you right now,” you mumble, but the last of your strength escapes you and you promptly fall asleep, face buried into her shoulder.

*

It happens fast. Suddenly you’re being whisked away on a horse. They’re talking about you—but you can’t make out what they’re saying. “ _So—_ this favor—what was it?” asks the guy, and you too would like to know what this favor is, but you’re so tired, _so exhausted_ , that you can barely keep your chin up as the girl carries you forward on her horse.

And it _is_ a horse you’re riding. You don’t think you’ve ever ridden a horse before—even if you did, you probably don’t remember.

At some point, you’re being tugged off—carried by that Asian guy with the scuffed moustache that you want to make fun of—and he’s asking more questions to the girl, who seems perfectly content ignoring him.

And then you wake up in a bed, no longer naked. You’re wearing another henley (go figure), but it’s huge on you. And—you don’t have any underwear on, but you’re in a pair of pajama shorts, which isn’t too bad because it’s certainly better than being butt-naked in a stranger’s bed.

“Shit, you’re awake.”

The girl at your beside is lanky, skinny as a twig—you don’t know her. But she knows you. And from the way she’s looking at you, like she’s about to burst, you get the feeling you’ve done something right. Which is a good thing. Because you could’ve ended up in seriously, seriously bad hands. Before you get a word in edgewise, she stands up, heads to the door, and rips it open.

“Hey—she’s awake!”

Footsteps come up the stairs, followed by two men you don’t know. Surprise, surprise. Not a single familiar face in sight.

“Christ,” says the first—a blonde, greasy looking man with a curl of a smile on his face like he’s holding back some secret he knows about you. “This the one you were talkin’ about?”

“Yeah,” says the girl, weakly. For some reason, the smile vanishes from her face. “It’s her.”

The other guy doesn't talk. Tall, dark, and handsome. He has a good beard, you think, studying his face. But he doesn't say a word, just looks at you like he's looking at you for the very last time. Weird. You don't like that look.

“The whole cavalry,” you mumble, rubbing the sleepiness out of your eyes as you move towards the edge of the bed. “Anyway—I’m gonna get out of your hair.”

“Hey—‘fore you do that, I’ve got a few questions for you,” says the blonde one. “Name’s Tommy, by the way.” He motions to the other man in the room. “That’s my brother, Joel.”

The girl waves at you, “Ellie.”

You pause, “OK.”

“Usually, you’re supposed to say your name back.”

“Well, I would if I knew what it was,” you tell him, and that smile on his face vanishes almost instantly into something of disbelief—then pity.

"You don't know your own name?" says Tommy.

"Nope."

“And...do you remember us?” says Ellie.

You stare at her face, wondering if you might discern anything of value, but come up unsurprisingly empty, “No—sorry.”

It’s quiet, as Tommy studies your face, “Alright, how about this? Where do you think you are right now?”

“I don’t know. That girl on the horse said Jackson.”

“’Kay. Let’s try somethin’ easier then. How old are you?”

A pause. “Can you go easier?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

“She makes jokes,” says Tommy, his laugh curt and cold. “OK—how ‘bout this? What _do_ you remember?”

“First off, great question.” You tap your chin, thinking. “Some kind of chanting. Lots of chanting, actually. I think I was part of a cult, but, like, not the fun kind of cult—”

Joel rubs his temples, looking very stressed, "This is a waste of time." Wow, it's the first thing he's said aloud so far. Amazing.

"I agree with him," you say, nodding.

Tommy leans forward on his chair, “Holy shit—you’re not from aroun’ here are ya?”

“Afraid not,” you say. “Even if I were, I wouldn't remember anyway.”

The one named Ellie clears her throat, “I saw what she did. We can’t just leave her to fend for herself.”

You frown, “I'm guessing I don’t get a say in this?”

“Not ‘til you remember your own damn name you don’t,” says Tommy, turning back on his chair to look at Joel. “Well? You got anythin’ to say big brother? Or are ya just gonna stand there and stare?”

Joel cards his fingers through his hair, meeting your gaze.

“Thanks.”

Ellie elbows him in the chest. He sighs.

“For saving my life.” And then he comes to your bedside, one hand outstretched like he’s offering you an olive branch, which it probably is. "I owe you."

You turn away, “I’ll call it even on one condition.”

He frowns, retracting his hand and setting it on his waist, “And what would that be?”

You meet his gaze, “Weed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can only ever write dipshit reader/OCs what else is new
> 
> I JUST WANT JOEL TO BE HAPPY FUCK MY LIFEEEEEEE...
> 
> on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt) btw if u wanna scream about joel wif me


	2. if thine is the glory then mine must be the shame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another story i'm prob gonna finish fast because i'm whipped what else is new right

“Shouldn’t be sleepin’ on the ground like that—gonna get yourself sick.”

" _Whatever_."

You’re faded, mind filled with a haze of smoke. Everything is _slow, slow, slow_ , and when your eyes open you find another face staring back at you. Very tall, very handsome, very _annoyed_. His arms are crossed over his chest, veins bulging underneath that blue t-shirt of his, and it isn’t until he nudges your foot that you realize he’s not going to leave you alone.

“This is some good shit. Remind me to thank Ellie,” you tell him, taking another drag from your joint—holding the smoke in your lungs as long as you can—before exhaling. You offer him the butt end. “Want?”

“No.”

Everything here is amplified: the sound of water rushing down the stream, the wet spring breeze sifting through the air, tickling your face. “OK—suit yourself.” You take another drag, exhale, and close your eyes only to feel the world spin at your whims. Everything is languid; everything is _perfect_. “Joel, I have a question.”

“What.”

Your face contorts, even as your eyes are closed. You’re trying to stifle a laugh as the question starts swimming in your mind before you can even get it out. "Do you get laid a lot in Jackson?"

“Alright, I’m leavin’.”

“No, no, no, wait. Stay. Please.” You sit up straight, feeling dizzying good as you study his face—his beard (did he clean up the edges just now?) before resting your gaze on his arms. He has huge biceps. It’s almost unfair how big they are, and he looks stupidly good in a t-shirt. “Promise I’ll stop messing with you."

For some reason, he settles back down on the ground. _Huh_. He doesn’t talk much, which is fine because you have enough to say for the two of you.

“OK, next question. Why’d you follow me?"

"Follow you? Jeez--your attention span's shorter than a goldfish." He scoffs. "I _escorted_ you. We rode together."

"Oh."

You roll over on your side, studying the trees--the leaves. They're melting into one giant glob before your very eyes, and yet you can't look away despite knowing it's nothing but a figment of your imagination. But whatever fascination you have with the foliage is immediately interrupted when Joel clears his throat, looking at you.

"Have you given any thought to what you wanted?"

You purse your lips, "The weed--"

"--that was Ellie's gift."

He has a look on his face that's divorced between sheepish and annoyed. He's probably the kind of person who hates owing a debt, no matter how small it is. But you suppose that the human life is no small debt to begin with. You may not remember his face -- you may not remember saving him at all -- but you probably shouldn't pass this one up so easily.

You take another breath, crawling over to the edge of the stream where you see the water sloshing through lazily. "Well, the fact of the matter is I don't remember anything. I don't remember any wants, any desires--"

"--except your hemp."

"Can you just let me finish?" You snap, glaring at him over your shoulder. He looks amused at the sight of you, like you're the jester to an otherwise pitiful circus act. "I don't remember any dislikes. I don't remember...any firsts."

"Firsts?"

"Yeah. First kiss, first date, first time. Marriage, honeymoon, divorce--"

"--trust me, when it happens, you won't wanna remember that."

You frown again, turning around and flopping on your ass to sit cross-legged. The sun is beating down on you from above while Joel is sheltered by the shade of the tree, a clear line in the sand. "I want you to do them with me," you tell him. "All my firsts."

"No." He doesn't even think about it, doesn't even show any hesitation or remorse for his immediate rejection. "Choose somethin' else."

"What the fuck--then why'd you even offer?"

"You want gold? Guns? Supplies?"

You stumble to your feet, slow like a sloth as you turn around to walk away. "Forget it," you mumble, eyes hazy as you immediately topple over, not even two feet away from your resting patch.

Joel comes to you, pulling you up by the neck of your shirt. You try to push him away, but his grip is stronger than whatever feeble attempt at pawing you have left in you. "Just give me a horse and I'll be on my merry fucking way," you hiss, not quite finding the strength to meet his gaze. "Stupid ass."

“You’re not goin’ anywhere ‘til you remember your damn name.”

“ _What does my name have to do with anything_ ,” you mutter, jerking away—but he doesn’t let you go, basically leashing you like a dog as you glare at him. “Let me go, you oaf--LET ME GO."

As soon as you say those last words, he lets go of your collar and you go tumbling backwards into the stream below.

He comes to the edge of the cliff, smiling, “Well, what d'ya know? You did say to let you go."

But you don't surface.

 _Oh_ , he thinks, staring at the foam in the water from where you left.

You don’t know how to swim.

“Shit.”

*

Sopping wet, you make your way down the main road of Jackson fielding all sorts of weird looks from faces you don't care and don't recognize. Joel hasn’t said a word so far, but he doesn’t have to because your very, very soaking wet being does all the talking for you.

He hands off his horse to one of the stableboys before breaking into a jog to catch up with you, “I just assumed you knew how to swim after all that talk about beaches."

“Yeah well _I don’t_ ,” you state. “So that’s news to me too. Asshole.”

"Jesus Christ--you really don't remember anythin' d'ya?"

"You think I was just pretending?" And that look on his face is one of _well, yeah_ , which makes you groan. "God you're so annoying. Just looking at you pisses me off."

"Right back at you, sweetheart."

You get to his front door, staring at all the landscape paintings. Some of sunsets, some of farms, _too many of horses_ riding wild in the distance. You come to a full stop at the bookshelf, where there's a tiny portrait landscape of the pond you'd just fallen in.

“It looks like Bob Ross took a shit in here," you mutter.

“Amazin'. You're tellin’ me you know Bob Ross but can’t remember your own name,” says Joel, walking right past you towards the bathroom.

“Whatever.”

He gets you a towel--two of them--before returning back to the space where you're stopped, "Go wash up. You're gonna get yourself sick like that."

You snatch the towels from his hands before making a break for the bathroom, where you promptly shut the door with a slam. Whatever high you had has apparently all but vanished as you rinse yourself off, wondering if it's possible to murder and resurrect the same person twice in a row without having all your memories vanish in one fell swoop.

By the time you're done, you wrap yourself in your towels and rip open the door to find clothes waiting for you on the other side. A t-shirt, a pair of shorts, and some old clean socks. You glance around the hall, frowning. Joel is nowhere to be found. And you--you start wondering why you feel a little less angry over something so pitifully inconsequential.

"Stockholm Syndrome," you tell yourself. 

_You're only feeling grateful because you're a lab rat who doesn't know any better._

*

No one's home, in fact, so you take towards the kitchen, rummaging through Joel's shelves and refrigerator for anything that might be useful. And you _do_ find some things useful, as you start fussing with dinner to take your mind off things. You're not high anymore, which means the only thing you can do to keep yourself from spiraling is to keep your hands full.

The handle of Joel's chef's knife comes pretty naturally to you as you start prepping the ingredients. It's weird how you already have a recipe at the back of your mind--a recipe you probably couldn't even think up on the fly--as soon as you catch sight of the shrimp in the freezer and the sausage being cured. The memory is an odd, odd specimen, but you try not to dwell on it as you continue working through his spice rack.

There's some bustling from the front door--someone's here. "Hey, that smells good." It's Ellie's voice. You can hear her drop off her gun at the foyer before making her way over.

"Hey," you smile at her.

"What're you making?" She asks, leaning over the kitchen island to take stock of the cut up vegetables you have laid out, along with the rice soaking in water.

You move towards the stove, where you turn down the fire, "Gumbo."

"Oh yeah? I'm surprised you remember the recipe for it."

"You and me both," you say, and for some reason, it makes her face contort. She looks sad. "Anyway, what's up? Are you looking for Joel?"

"No, actually. I wanted to ask you something." She pulls out something from her pocket--a polaroid photo. There's a girl in it. Blond hair, big arms. "Do you recognize her?"

You take a look at her photo, trying to digest her features, racking your mind all the same, "Afraid not."

"Damn. Was worth a try," she says, shuffling the photograph back into her pocket. "How're you holding up here?"

"It's...fine. I'm bored," you admit, shuffling between the stove and your prep work. You find it hard to meet her gaze. "Feel like I'm outstaying my welcome here while trying to figure out the meaning of why I'm here--all that existential stuff, you know?"

For some reason, she seems like she does. A small smile starts forming on her face as she glances down at the knife on the table. "You know you're not overstepping anything, right? You saved--" She pauses, that smile of hers vanishing in a near instant. "You saved his life. It's the least we could do."

You study her face, so filled with contempt and pain that you can nearly taste it. "Was it bad?"

She blinks, looking up to meet your gaze, only for some realization to dawn not long after. You don't know the whole story, but you're starting to figure out the bits and pieces. Say what you will about Jackson, but they're awful at hiding context clues.

"Sometimes forgiving someone else means forgiving yourself," you tell her, turning back to the stove where the gumbo's brewing along.

You don't know how much your advice will help, and you're not sure if she's even listening, but when you turn back--you notice that not much has changed on her face. She still looks angry, still looks concerned. And she looks like she's ready to change the subject, from what you can surmise. _Probably because her mind's already made up_.

"That...power of yours," she says, slowly. "Felt like we were blessed that day."

You nod. You don't tell her it's more of a curse than anything.

The door opens again. You recognize those footsteps--they belong to Joel. And lo and behold, it is Joel, walking down the hall only to come to a stop when he sees you in the kitchen with Ellie. "Hey kiddo," he says, and you can see a flash of a smile that's strained and broken when Ellie looks back at him.

"Well, I'm gonna get out of your hair," she says, standing up straight. "You two enjoy yourselves."

"Trust me, I won't," you beam at her as she takes off.

Huh. Awkward.

Joel musses up the back of his hair, turning to face you, "You made dinner?" And yes-- _yes_. Any genius can take a look at the kitchen and see that you've made dinner.

"Obviously," you mutter, turning towards the sink.

You can feel him frown at you as he moves towards the bar cart, retrieving a bottle of scotch and a single cup. "Tommy says you ought'a stay here for the next few days--at least until we figure out your livin' situation," he says, pouring himself a drink. No, it does not escape you for a moment that he's likely drinking away the futility of his predicament.

"What're my other options?"

"You can sleep on the floor outside."

"Wow, you're hilarious." You reach up to the cabinet, taking out two bowls. "I can't stay with Ellie?"

"She's got one bed."

You frown, "I can't stay with Tommy?"

He snorts, "Yeah, you wanna live with a married couple? Oh--and one more thing," he takes a sip of scotch, looking over at you. "You're keepin' this a damned secret. Anyone asks? You're a cousin of ours from Texas. Capiche?"

You make him a bowl, setting it on the kitchen island before shoving it towards him. "Fine, whatever." You take off your apron, turn off the fire, and leave wordlessly without sparing him a second glance as you make your way towards the staircase.

He swipes himself a spoonful of gumbo, swallowing whole. "Shit, that's good."

*

Days start passing by with zero resolve. Joel starts figuring out what life looks like with you in the picture.

You take over his guest room, which is mostly his woodworking room with a sleeping mat, and you start making yourself a schedule. You wake up at the crack of dawn, you make breakfast, you visit Ellie and Dina for lunch, and you start integrating yourself into Jackson. You attend bingo nights, flirt with the old timers down at the bar, and for the most part, you seem pretty settled into your routine.

Oh, and you start painting his sculptures for fun, mostly because you have literally nothing else to do in your spare time. He won't teach you how to use a gun, he won't let you go on patrols, and he won't let you have anything to do with the recruits in town.

He doesn't trust you, which is fine because you don't exactly trust him either. But you've come to a point in your relationship where you don't have any choice but to rely on each other. He'll bring home fish from the lake; you'll make dinner for him. He'll come back with holes in his shirt from patrol; you'll stitch them up at night when he's asleep. He doesn't notice until he wakes up and realizes that mysterious rip in his favorite green overshirt is gone.

"What're you doin'?"

Today you're shading in the bust of his bald eagle. You're working on the wings, putting on the finishing touches to an otherwise boring project. "I'm painting," you tell him, frowning. "Because you won't get me a tablet. Or a PC."

He studies it under the light of the morning sun. You've painted up a lot of his other sculptures too, most likely because you've been sleeping in that room every night. Granted you never asked permission to do so, he doesn't mind too much. "It's not half bad," he tells you, as you set down your painting brush to let the sculpture dry.

You don't say much to him--you just get up, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, and head to the box of old records stored away underneath the table. "I'm gonna listen to music now," you tell him, a not so subtle nod for him to go away.

"Fine, I'll get outta your hair."

He makes his way to the door, but comes to a stop when he hears you mumbling something else.

"So much country. So much rock," you sigh, flipping through the catalogue. "I wanna listen to Katy Perry--or kpop."

"What the hell is kpop."

You decide to drop it, ignoring him as you get up and make your way through the hall and towards his bedroom where he has more records hiding underneath his bed. But you stop at the photograph of his daughter--the one where she's wearing a soccer uniform, holding a trophy with a smile on her face.

Joel looks younger here, more boyish. You don't really recognize him without the scars, but you figure that's the charm. There's no more trace of his daughter here anymore, but Ellie is everywhere, so you're able to put two and two together pretty quickly.

He stops at your side, clearing his throat.

You come back to your senses, looking away from the photograph. "All this time I thought you were a virgin," you say.

He laughs. He _actually_ laughs.

It's the first time you've ever heard him laugh--and you realize you quite like the sound of it. Deep and wholesome, a laugh from the depths of his belly. You find yourself smiling despite yourself as you pull the blankets over your shoulders to go back to your room, but he stops you.

"I thought about it."

Immediately your smile vanishes, "About what."

He sighs, "What you want. Your firsts. First date, I mean. I'll do it. But none of that--not your first time. That one don't sit right with me."

You blink, "Wait, seriously? You'll do it?"

"Don't keep askin' or else I'll change my--"

You throw your arms around his neck, pulling him into the tightest hug you can manage--and the suddenness must've thrown him off because his hands immediately settle on your waist for balance. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" You squeal, nearly jumping into his arms. When you pull back, he sees tears in your eyes. "Pick me up at 7? I wanna go line dancing tonight."

"Pick you up? You _live_ here--"

Before he gets to finish, you're already out the room.

He sighs.

*

You look... _pretty_.

Joel has no idea where you managed to unearth a sundress (and it _is_ a sundress, he thinks, staring at the flowers on your bosom)--why your cheeks look a little pinker, where you got that black stuff lining your eyes, and how you managed to find a pair of boots. The shrunken denim jacket you're wearing probably belongs to Tommy, the belt is probably Ellie's, but he can't for the life of him understand where you got the earrings.

"You look nice," he says.

You take his arm, beaming, "I know." All of Jackson could stop, but that smile on your face looks eternal. "You don't look half bad yourself, cowboy."

Sure, he's trimmed a bit. Mussed his hair with wax. Tucked in a collared shirt. Put on his good jeans. But that probably doesn't compare to the amount of effort you've put in. "Thanks," he replies, as you drag him towards the dance hall. Which is basically the bar that's been revamped.

"Y'know, I'm not much of a dancer," he tells you.

"I don't think I am either," you reply, ripping open the door. (He really should be doing all the gentlemanly stuff for you, but you don't seem to care.) "But it's more fun than--bingo night, right?"

"Hey, some of us 'ere like bingo night."

You look at him, disappointedly, as you turn back around to greet the locals. Old man Sawyer and his wife Bella. That new rancher Pete and his mom, the latter who's spent an inordinate amount of time trying to woo Joel with brownies. And the whole lot of recruits from the yard, mingling among one another in excitement. You greet all of them, and it surprises him more than he expects.

"Didn't expect to see my big brother here," says Tommy, breaking through the crowd. "Sheesh, all those times Maria tried to get you to come--when all it took was some pretty girl batting her eyelashes."

"It's not like that," says Joel, studying you from across the room. "Just a debt I'm tryin' to repay."

"Oh yeah?" Tommy follows his gaze, grinning like he knows some secret his older brother doesn't. "Suddenly you have a change of heart?"

Not quite a change of heart. It's much more gradual than that. But Joel decides to keep that bit to himself as Maria makes her way through the crowd to collect her better half. "You go on and have fun," he tells his baby brother. "Got myself a date to get back to."

*

Joel is not a dancer, but he certainly tries.

At the least, you're having fun--laughing as you trip over your own two feet, trying to keep up with the crowd. You're really not faring any better, but you're having fun--and somehow it makes him have fun too. Even as the teacher says something about you being the clumsiest duo she's ever met.

It isn't until class is over that he realizes the two of you are covered in sweat. It's a better workout than he's had on patrol in a while.

"That was really fun," you say, smiling. And he thinks he quite likes the look of your smile under the moonlight.

The others are beginning to filter out from behind, a cacophony of chatter filling the air. But all the world comes to a stop when he sees you look up to meet his gaze. "Did you have a good time?" You ask, and he has to blink twice to break out of that reverie.

"Yeah, I did."

"Good." You tug him down the main road. "Let's go home--I'm gonna make us dinner."

"Whoa, hold up." The grip he has on you is stronger. "Didn't I say I was gonna take _you_ on a date?"

You arch a brow, "Yeah, but--"

"Slow down then," he lets go of your arm, but immediately takes your hand instead. "I already have everythin' set up. C'mon."

*

He takes you to the meadow he found you in. There's a picnic blanket sitting out before the T-Rex, along with a picnic basket.

"Oh shit," you utter, as he helps you dismount from his horse. "You did good."

"Yeah, I know. Didn't ace all my classes in high school for nothin'."

You marvel at the thought, taking a seat on the blanket while watching all the fireflies rise from the grass. "Did you really?"

"Nah, nearly failed out of geometry my freshman year," he says, taking a seat right next to you.

You pause, studying the pond and the bend of earth you'd landed on--no longer covered in leaves now that spring is here. "I wonder how I did in high school," you say.

"Prol'ly no better than me."

"It's no better _than I_."

He scoffs, "Alright, nerd."

You smile as he pulls back the picnic box to reveal a bunch of utensils and napkins. "Now, I'm not much of a cook, but I do make a good sandwich," he says, and you laugh, catching sight of two cans of coke at the bottom of the box. You know soda is a rare luxury around here, what with the post-apocalypse inconvenience, but you keep that to yourself as you watch him procure two plates.

He's good at taking care of people, you think.

*

"So you're tellin' me--you get some say in where you wanna go."

"Mmhmm. Like I wanted to go--"

"--to Maui. Yeah. Can't forget it even if I wanted," he says. "So why haven't you ended up there?"

"Who knows," you look away, hoping to turn the subject. "Anyway, what did you wanna be when you were little?"

"Singer. You?"

You sit up, looking over at him. His eyes are closed, his hand's resting on his chest, and the thought of him singing on stage in front of some nameless rock band almost makes you laugh--except you can see it. He has the rugged Texas country boy shtick down to a tee. You're pretty sure all middle-aged moms would throw themselves at the chance to see him play.

"I...don't know," you say, laying back down.

There's a pause--it's _heavy_.

"Dreams are just that...aren't they? Just...something to hold out for even though you're never going to get it," you say, turning on your side to look at the pond and the glow of bioluminescent light swarming over the water. "Maybe I just don't have one."

"C'mon. Everyone's got a dream. Even without your damn memories."

You play with the grass, mussing it up between your fingers before letting it drop. "All I have are nightmares these days," you admit--and it's the first time you've admitted it aloud so far. You turn back around to face him--his eyes are still closed. "You have them too, right? I can hear you talking in your sl--"

"Hey. Easy now."

You frown, "Don't talk to me like a horse."

He stops. Because he stops talking to you altogether.

"Doesn't matter anyway," you say, exhaling. "I won't be here long."

"Yeah? And where are you plannin' on goin'?"

"Nowhere. But I can never stay anywhere long enough to plan anything anyway."

"And why's that?"

You look at him--trying to remember his face from once upon a time. A face you can't remember, a face you can't recall at all. "Because I don't get to choose where I go or where I end up," you say. "Because fate is stronger than whatever my wants or needs are."

And then you pause, mulling it over. Mulling over what could've brought you here--because fate _is_ strong and fate has other plans for you. And you've landed in Jackson twice, so what does that say about fate?

"I'm not going to ask you to kiss me by the way," you tell him, voice barely a whisper.

"That's fine. This was enough for me."

Funny. You were going to say the same thing.

*

The date ends.

Both of you go home quietly. Something in the air has shifted, something neither of you are ready to acknowledge. But that's alright--you figure everything will go back to being the same when morning comes.

You have nightmares that night. Unsurprisingly, they're nightmares of the same thing. Chanting, fire, and blood. A burn in your back as you feel something sharp carve into you. You can hear a wail of agony, then silence. More chanting. A flash of light, and suddenly you're waking up in the foliage of greenery in front of a giant T-Rex replica. Dina, Ellie, Jesse. Tommy and Joel. You're running after them, but they're vanishing into the darkness, faster than you can catch.

You wake up in a cold sweat, breath uneasy. There are tears sticky on your face, as you wipe them away and roll out of bed.

Into the hall you go, tiptoeing past that creaky floorboard you've learned so well. You silently open the door to the master bedroom, where you find a clump of a body sleeping face-up.

"Jesus Christ--you scared the livin' daylights out of me."

“Can’t sleep. Nightmares.”

He lifts up his blanket and you take the opportunity without hesitation, curling up on the left side of the bed while he takes on the right.

Neither of you are facing each other, and for the most part, you're fine with that arrangement. Just having another body near you--another warm body--is enough to make you close your eyes and let the sands of sleep whisk you away into the ether of dreams.

The nightmares cease. You don't really dream, but it's better than the alternative. You could really do without those annoying Gregorian chants--and you could do without all those bald heads, greasy smiles, and ugly medieval robes too. You feel warmer--a lot warmer.

And when you wake up, night still young, you realize it's because you're wrapped up in someone else's arms.

Joel's arms--they have you in a hug. And your cheek is buried against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat faint in your ears. Your face goes _hot_ when you realize where you are, what you're doing--but that doesn't compare to the thrum in your chest. You think you might burst at this rate, so you shut your eyes as tight as you can and hold your breath.

And then he pulls back, eyes sleepy as he meets your gaze. "Hey. No more nightmares, huh?"

He looks really handsome, even when he's tired.

"No."

"Good."

But he doesn't let go of your gaze--and that tired smile on his face starts to vanish as he leans in--closer, closer.

Your eyes flutter shut when your lips meet.

And it's a fairly tame kiss, one that doesn't last more than a second. It's pure, chaste--and when he pulls back to look at you, all you can do is wish it lasted longer.

"Sorry. I lied," he murmurs. "Wasn't enough for me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shortened this to one more chapter--and then we are done :)
> 
> please scream to me abt joel in the comments as the wife of joel miller i would greatly appreciate it


	3. you want it darker, we kill the flame

Neither of you acknowledge _that_ incident again.

And for the most part, life goes on. You go about your days like you’re none-the-wiser, like you didn’t just sleep in his bed that one time to avoid those _unceasing,_ horrendous plague of nightmares. Your squabbles continue, but neither of you are determined to win the fight, which means it’s been relatively peaceful in the Miller household.

He starts bringing you trinkets from patrol—and it starts out with pretty menial and inconsequential stuff: books from school, a tea set that looks like it belongs to a very, very eccentric grandmother, and fancy paint from the abandoned art shop. He doesn’t expect any thanks, just gives it to you like he’s administering a transaction, and for a while you convince yourself he’s just being nice, which is a good reprieve from his grumpiness.

He even finds you an SNSD album from the music shop and you almost weep with joy until he tells you something like, “Dunno what’s so great about ‘em—just sounds like regular ol’ pop music to me. Can't even understand half of what they're sayin',” which results in you throwing something back like “ _Gee_ was literally a shift in the cultural paradigm you dumb oaf” which inevitably ends with him saying something like “I don’t even know what that means.” Fighting without any resolve whatsoever--it's what you two do best.

He studies the album cover before studying _you_ , “It’s just not my cupp’a tea.”

“Yeah, well, I bet your taste in tea is shit.”

He sighs. And that’s it—whatever fight the both of you have vanishes because you’re happy to have some new music that isn’t all pickup trucks, cowboy boots, and longing for war. And he’s just happy to see that you’re happy.

(It takes you a few days to realize it means he actually went out of his way to listen to them.

It takes you a week to realize he's been writing down chords in secret to play it on guitar.)

It’s clockwork--at this rate, you practically have it down to a science. You fight, you make up, and you move on with your lives. Some days you don’t fight at all. Some days, you even share his woodworking shop (aka your bedroom)—and go about your business in silence. He carves something new; you paint it on the side. It’s quiet living, so quiet in fact that you forget you're living in some dystopian horror with a whole swarm of clickers waiting outside those gates.

You’re _used_ to each other. You’ve _gotten to know_ each other. Well, at least you’ve gotten to know him. (You’re still figuring out who you are, what you’re doing, and where you’re going to go from here.) He's been the talk of the town ever since he returned from _that_ incident. From what you understand, he looks a bit younger than he did before, which means all the desperate widows of Jackson are lining up at his doorstep. They bring him gifts from home--baked goods, liquor, and blankets (you indulge in all three when he's not looking); but for the most part, he pays them little attention.

Which brings you back to square one.

You don't know where you stand with him. You're not quite friends, but not quite lovers either. Both of you suck at flirting--well, he's rustier than you are. At least you actually _try_ to throw a couple quips his way, but it usually devolves into you arguing with him about something stupid. (Go figure.)

So when Maria decides to set Joel up with one of her recently widowed friends -- a very, very pretty woman named Sally -- you decide to push him a little.

"Are you gonna go out with her?" You ask him one fine Sunday morning, listening to your SNSD album on low volume while filling in the empty patches on his brown bear figurine.

He snorts, "Not discussin' this with you."

You frown, watching him string up his newest creation--a guitar. "Don't tell me big bad Joel Miller is afraid of a date." And when he doesn't reply immediately--when he turns back to his guitar, you scoff. "Holy shit. Don't you kill clickers and shit for a living? You're actually scared of a freakin'--"

He slaps his hand over your mouth, sighing. "You talk too much," he says, and for the record you agree.

He inevitably removes his hand, revealing a slack-jawed grin on your face. For some reason your face is red.

"Maybe you should just date me instead," you tell him. "I'd be a really good girlfriend. I'm a good cook, I'd like to think I'm well-read, and I might not be the best dancer but I'm willing to learn. Anyway, I'd be a really good girlfriend. That's my thesis, professor."

He just gives you a look, "I'm sure you would."

The corners of your lip tip up to form a little smile, but it vanishes almost instantly when you realize that's probably your answer. Neither of you are playing to win anymore. 

"You should go out with her," you say softly, shifting your gaze to the window.

He pauses, looking your way--but only seeing the back of your head instead. He wonders what you're looking at now that the sun is down. For some reason, he feels a pit of dread in his stomach when he sees you return to the figurine with a smile on your face.

"I'll consider it," he says, hoping it's the right answer.

(It's not.) But that smile on your face could've fooled anyone.

*

And it hurts, too. But you're not about to admit that aloud when neither of you have established something meaningful. (You'd never gotten into his bed again, he'd never brought up the kiss, and so the two of you are locked in a standstill where neither one wants to concede first.) You don't necessarily cry about it, but it fucking _sucks_ trying to pretend like everything is otherwise fine.

So you start getting more distant the more and more Joel brings Sally over. And he's pretty quick to catch on, especially when you start skirting your morning rituals together. (You usually wake up at the crack of dawn to eat breakfast with him before he heads out on patrol.) You start skirting your afternoon rituals too. (You usually wait for him at the gates to enjoy a leisurely stroll to the house together before showing him whatever dish you've been working on in the kitchen.) And you start missing out on your Sunday mornings (his favorite day of the week because it's just you, him, and the woodworking shop).

You offer him some bullshit excuse like _I forgot_ \--and he buys it because your memory's always been the subject of contention anyway. Why should he assume otherwise when you can't even remember your own damn name?

He tells himself if anything were truly, truly wrong, you'd come to him first. But even that starts getting murky as you head over to Ellie's to talk about something "pertinent," as you put it so lovingly. You spare some visits to Tommy and Maria's place too, but that's where you make your first mistake. Because you're working under the assumption that Tommy will keep things from his older brother--you're working under the assumption that Tommy might find it in himself to _owe you one_ before Joel.

But the final nail in the coffin comes days before that.

It comes when Sally arrives for dinner one night while you're hanging around upstairs, coloring in the lines of the most recent guitar he'd finished. It's a heavy responsibility, but he'd given you the honor of doing the paintjob, the gloss job, and the wax job. And you were up for the task--enjoying yourself until you heard arguing below.

" _I'm not stupid, y'know. I know she ain't your cousin_."

You creep to the edge of the stairs, where you hear Joel sigh. (You can recognize that sigh anywhere.)

"So why is she still around?"

"It's none of your damn business," is Joel's response and in your mind you're like _go Joel!!_ but he immediately sighs again. "She's important to me--that's all you need to know."

And you feel a flutter in your stomach. You're important! You mean something to him! Wow. The emotional constipation could've fooled you otherwise.

Sally takes a breath, "What exactly...is she to you?"

He's silent. When Joel doesn't want to talk about something, he does this neat thing where he zips his mouth shut and offers you a cold shoulder.

"I'm not here to play games, Joel." You can hear some shuffling, a chair scraping against hardwood. "Seems to me you ought'a take some time to figure out what you want."

For some reason, you understand her. If your situations were switched, you probably wouldn't be too happy to see the guy you're dating living with some other woman in his two-story house. It's a strange thing to digest, especially when you've been _Team Joel_ all this time.

But maybe that's the thing. As long as you're here, he'll never get to live a normal life--he'll never get to find himself a longterm companion who will stay the course forevermore. As long as you're here, you'll just be living on the edge of _what comes next? Who can I save? When will I disappear again along with my memories_?

You realize you don't belong here.

So you leave the house the next morning, head to Ellie's place, and start making plans.

*

You angle the polaroid photo against the sun, squinting to look at the scars on your naked back. "It's a map," you explain, trying to discern the value of those lines, those little pink etches. They're scattered across your skin, looking very much like a connect-the-dot game that requires zero effort to complete because the answer is looking right at you.

Ellie studies your form from her writing desk, "Where's it lead?"

"Vegas, I think," you reply, looking at the X in your skin right above your left buttcheek. "Huh, guess that's where I'm supposed to be."

She pauses, looking over you again before staring at the ground. "Is this really what you want?" Something in her voice is a little cooler now, maybe colder too.

And you have to really think about it as you slip the photograph into your back pocket. "It's where I'm from. I just know it. It's...home," you tell her, feeling more and more unsure about it as you realize her face is unchanging, totally nonchalant. "I don't think I really belong here in Jackson--I just...know there's something waiting for me out there. Something bigger than this."

That scowl on Ellie's face melts into something of understanding. Almost as if she knows exactly what you mean. "Vegas is a long ride from Jackson," she says. "It'll probably take you a week to get there by horse--and that's assuming you don't run into any trouble on the way."

You hum in understanding, crossing your arms over your chest as you glance out the window to see Joel and Tommy come down the side road. Joel looks like he's looking for something in the main house--a face in the window that he doesn't find. He looks...disappointed.

"Let me come with you," she says. "I owe you that much."

" _You'd only slow me down_ ," you tell her in a very poor attempt at a baritone drawl.

"Ugh, you're the worst." Still, something faint flickers on her face--a smile that you don't miss. "I...really hope you find what you're looking for."

You look at Joel one more time to see him looking back at you. The both of you look away simultaneously. "I really hope I do too," you say, leaning against the window.

*

"She's plannin' on leavin' today," says Tommy. "Told me n' Maria to keep it a secret n' all--but I figure you might wanna say your goodbyes 'fore she goes."

"You kiddin' me?"

"Afraid not, big brother."

Joel looks into the window of Ellie's complex and sees you looking right back at him. You're the first too look away before he does as he tries to register the fact that he's hearing this from his baby brother before you. He's pissed -- rightfully so -- and he can feel his insides recoil until he starts wondering why the hell this is bothering him so much.

Until--

\--until he's thinking about your face of concentration as you paint in the shadows of his buck figurine. Your smile as you break away from the pack of recruits at the gate to greet him on his return from patrol. The quiet Sunday mornings you share together. Making breakfast in the kitchen and enjoying each other's company, even if it's in silence. It's a highlight reel of memories he wouldn't trade for the world.

He sees you slip out of Ellie's complex, ducking underneath the neighbor's fence with a knapsack in hand.

"I gotta go," he says, turning tail towards the main road.

Tommy smiles, "Yep--do what you hafta do."

*

He finds you by the weapon station, where you're trying to coax the new recruit on duty with a bag of sunflower seeds.

"Good morning, I would like a rocket launcher," you state, sounding stupidly bold as you flash him a shameless smile.

Everything about your being stinks of insincerity. (Joel could probably smell it from a mile away.)

The recruit offers you a handgun instead.

"Damn. Was worth a shot," you take it from him, turning around only to catch Joel's gaze.

"Oh shit."

Oh shit indeed.

"What the hell is this 'bout you leavin'?" He says and before you even get the chance to turn around and bolt towards the stables, he grabs you by the wrist and stops you dead in your tracks. "I asked you a damned question."

"I'm taking a sabbatical," you hiss, trying to pry his hand off to absolutely no avail--his grip much stronger than yours.

"To _Vegas_?"

"I didn't say it was an educational one."

Had it not been for the absurdity of the situation, he surely would've laughed.

But he just looks at you--and that initial bout of anger on his face melts into something of hurt. Into something forlorn and desolate. Shit, he looks really, _really_ hurt. And whatever fight you had immediately fades into guilt because you know it's your fault.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

You find it hard to look him in the eye, "I just had a feeling you were going to stop me." But you know whatever excuse you're trying to conjure up isn't going to fly with him. "I--I didn't mean to keep it from you." _Well actually you did--_ but now you're just spouting insincerities out the ass to save yourself. "I'm sorry. I...really appreciate all you did for me in Jackson, but--"

"--I'm going with you."

You blink, " _Huh?_ "

He lets go of your wrist, heading towards the main road, "I'm grabbin' supplies from our house. Stay put."

"Joel." You don't know why you're so vehemently against this idea, but every nerve of your being is screaming to convince him to stay. As you try to catch him in the crowd, you start babbling away, "What if we run into Abby? What happens then?"

"Last I hear she's in Seattle. That's a long way from Vegas. Doubt we'll find any of her crew now that she thinks I'm dead."

"What about Ellie? She's still sore about the situation--if you're away, she might--"

"--don't bring her name into this," he snaps. _Oh_. He's mad. For more reasons than one. You try not to roll your eyes at him as you clutch onto the edge of his shirt while he forges a path through the crowd. "And don't be stupid 'bout this either. You ain't never shot a gun--suddenly you're gonna travel 700 miles down south on your own? I'd be surprised if you weren't eaten by a runner your first hour out these damned gates."

You wrinkle your brows, "OK, no need to be so cruel."

"Why wouldn't you say anythin'?" He mutters, stomping up the steps of his front porch. "It ever occur to ya that I might have to do some plannin' around your absence?"

You don't really know what that means and at this point you're too afraid to ask. "Joel, I--"

"Did it ever occur in that tiny pea-sized brain of yours that I might give a shit about you?"

Oh.

You fall silent, watching as he heads up the stairs to grab his travel bag, along with some essentials around the house. Some rope, dried goods, and some bandages. He changes into his green overshirt, and for the most part you're quiet about it because you're not really ready to concede defeat in a fight that you've already lost.

"You should wear somethin' lighter," he states, every word dripping with caustic miasma. "It gets hot in the damn desert."

*

Two days of travel pass by.

Two days of silent treatment from Joel too.

You try and salvage what's left of your relationship by pointing out the sights on the way--the mountain terrain you've never seen before, the valley streams that go endlessly into the horizon, the abandoned cityscapes you tread the outskirts of, and the unending stretch of abandoned cars that line the highway you avoid. It's a post-apocalyptic nightmare, but it's also hauntingly beautiful and romantic in a way you never thought it would be.

You try and make small-talk about what things looked like before the world went to shit, but Joel does a bang-up job ignoring you. All things considered, he doesn't change. He's a persistent guy. Persistently stubborn, that is.

"How long are you gonna be mad at me?" You ask on Day 3, peeling off your shirt by the Great Salt Lake of Utah. You're about halfway to your destination, but that hasn't stopped him from straight up giving you the cold shoulder. "Just ballpark it so I know when I should try my hand at starting another conversation with you."

Lo and behold, he doesn't answer as he starts setting up camp while you wade into the water, butt naked.

You've been pretty lucky so far. No runners, no clickers, no bloaters. But you know the closer you get to Vegas, the closer the danger is.

When you realize he's not going to speak, you wade a little deeper in the water, just short of treading it. Joel glances at you from the edge, catching sight of your back and all those scars too--glowing pink underneath the last of sunlight.

"Prol'ly gonna be a cult," he mutters.

You hear him, breaking into a smile. It's the first word he's said to you in days. OK--that's progress, right? You're finally getting somewhere with him (your nakedness probably has something to do with that). "Well, one man's cult is another man's family, right?" You decide to throw out the bait to see if he bites, but it just makes him frown at you.

He looks annoyed, turning back to the camp, "Jackson could be your home too if you just gave it a chance."

Now you're the one who's silent as you dip your head underwater only to surface moments later with a breath that tastes like morning. "I did give it a chance," you tell him.

"No you didn't."

"Yes I did."

" _No_. You didn't."

Huh. So you're fighting again, which is pretty familiar territory. It beats getting the silent treatment, but you also don't know where to go from here. Because you think you're right, he thinks he's right, and now you're locked in another standstill where neither one wants to concede first.

"I have a question," he says, coolly, not quite looking at you as he takes a seat at the edge of the lake.

You feel a shiver run down your spine as the last sunlight begins to vanish over the mountains, "Shoot."

"Dina said you didn't appear until three months after...what happened," he says. _After you saved him--from death and back_. "Where were you durin' that time?"

You have to think about it, lowering your mouth below the surface of the water. You try to rack your brain for an answer, but realize that's probably the point. You don't have one.

"I think I was just gone," you say. "I imagine it's a lot like what death looks like. A state of nonexistence...just dead space."

"...that's terrible."

"I'd probably agree, if I remembered any of it." You pause, mulling it over. "And then I woke up and saw the trees and..."

It had been spring. Everything had thawed after winter. Everything was awake--the crickets were chirping, the breeze was warm, and the leaves were rustling against each other like a symphony of nature and life. Your remember opening your eyes, taking in the sight of it all, and feeling an unwitting smile curl up on your face. A smile you couldn't even hide.

"And?"

You meet Joel's gaze, "It was beautiful."

He notices you don't mention the beach again. For someone so taken with Maui, he surely would've expected some disappointment waking up in "the middle of nowhere," as you put it so lovingly.

"You should get changed," he says, glancing at the night sky--the stars blooming in the sea of blue above. "You're gonna get yourself sick like that."

*

Day 5.

It’s the last stretch of desert to go and the two of you are _galloping_ down the highway.

There’s a swarm of runners at your back, in various stages of decay. You’re holding onto Joel’s waist for dear life, pressing your cheek against his back with your eyes closed. You think if you pretend hard enough, they’ll just vanish, but when you open your eyes to look over your shoulder, they’re still fucking there. Running at you like they have time to spare—like they’re fucking marathon training.

“They really don’t let up,” you mumble. “Why does lactic acid logic not apply to these things?” You look at a particularly obese one who’s leading the pack with hungry eyes. “Surely that one shouldn’t be going so fast? Unless I’m missing something?”

“I seriously have no idea how you’ve managed to survive this long."

"Sometimes I wonder that myself."

The farther you go, the farther back the runners fall. Shockingly, it’s not exhaustion that hits them—but the heat of the Vegas desert. You notice some of their shoes are melting into the sidewalk, keeping them tethered to the ground. By the time the sun starts setting overhead, they’re long gone and it’s just the two of you again—riding alone in silence.

X marks the spot. You can see the outpost in the distance. A signed scrawled ‘ _Sons of Hawthorne_ , the eternal family’ sits by the wayside. That's your endgoal, your final destination.

Joel glances at it before snorting. “Sounds like a bunch of Mormons to me. We called ‘em Hawks in my day,” he says, and it makes you perk your head up in curiosity. “A bunch of religious zealots from what I remember."

“Well, that explains the chanting.” It's the only thing you _can_ remember. "Joel?"

You press your cheek against his back, listening to the thrum of his lungs as he takes a breath.

"Yeah?"

The outpost is getting closer. From here, you can make out the gates. A whole community sits on the inside, nestled in the shadows of the desert mountains. It's covered in barbed wire, stakes, and DO NOT ENTER signs.

"When I told you I wished I were in Maui, that was a lie," you say, sounding a little embarrassed about it--embarrassed enough to actually blush.

He decides to humor you because neither of you want to acknowledge the elephant in the room. In moments to come, you're going to say goodbye. In moments to come, you're going be long gone. Another footnote in his history.

"OK, so what'd you wish for?"

"I wished--"

The gates screech open before you even get there.

A single man in white robes apparates before you. He's carrying a torch, flames flickering against his head of white hair. From what you can surmise as you come to a full stop, he has kind eyes, which gives him an almost Santa Claus-ish quality, minus the gaping beer cut and ridiculous red suit.

"Hi," you say, popping your head out past Joel's shoulder. "I'm--"

"We know who you are," he says, eyes lighting up as he breaks into a smile. "Welcome home, sister."

(Eternal family indeed.)

*

The Sons of Hawthorne is a pretty big misnomer, considering the amount of women and children inside the gates. Everyone— _literally everyone_ is wearing white, except you and Joel, which means you stick out like sore thumbs as you follow Santa Claus (you learn his name is Eric—and prior to the infection, he was a math teacher at a Catholic school) down the main road.

“Afraid we’ll have to take those from you,” he says, motioning to Joel’s weapons. “Violence is prohibited under the watchful eye of the sunlord.”

But Joel immediately jerks away from the boy at the entrance who’s clamoring for the shotgun on his back, “I'm not intendin’ on causin’ any violence,” he snaps.

“Let him keep it. He’s just being protective of me,” you say, and Eric immediately acquiesces with a smile. You turn around and glare at Joel, voice lowered to a whisper. “You’re embarrassing me— _stop it_.”

He frowns at you before following along.

Eric starts rattling off the history of you. How you were born inside these gates, how you were blessed with the gift of this all-knowing Sun Lord, how you were the product of generations of blood sacrifice. Blah, blah, blah. All the holy rhetoric is going way over your head as you come to a stop at the giant wooden tome sitting in the center of this very, very strange village.

“This is our sacred word,” says Eric, motioning up to this scripture carved into wood. All of it illegible, and even if you could read, you probably wouldn’t understand it anyway.

“Looks like a regular ol’ piece of wood to me,” says Joel, rubbing his beard.

He studies it a little closer, but Eric immediately stiffs an arm out before him. "That is our sacred word--keep your distance."

"You're special," he goes on, taking your hands in his. And for a second, you believe it, and the thought alone makes you wilt. Because being special means you have bigger responsibilities than just existing, than just living--being special means not having Sunday mornings to look forward to.

"She's a normal girl--don't give 'er any funny ideas," says Joel. You think he might be bitter about the whole thing, but you realize it's because somewhere deep down he actually cares. Because it's the right thing to say, even if it sounds off, and only the two of you know that.

You smile at him, gratefully, as Eric guides you around the post.

And then you see it.

Dozens of bodies in various stages of decay--hung up by their necks. Some are men, some are women, some are children. The only difference is none of them are wearing white. They're just like you--just like Joel.

"You might've heard of our sister group in the northwest," says Eric.

But you're staring up at the bodies, feeling your stomach go queasy, "What--what is this?"

"Intruders," says Eric. "It was either us or them."

"Seems to me it was only you," says Joel.

Eric ignores him.

In the distance you see children laughing, frolicking underneath the hanging bodies and playing hide-and-seek between their legs. They're shrieking with smiles, completely none-the-wiser.

"We've left a part of ourselves on you each time you bestowed us with your gift. Those scars on your back--they're proof of your mettle. Of your life. Of your _worth_ ," he goes on, looking right past the bodies as he continues down the road towards the biggest tent in the distance. "Our family has thrived--and continues to thrive--thanks to you, sister."

You're starting to put the pieces together.

 _This family is proof of your worth_.

You save each and every one of them from the brink of death--there and back again--and that way no one inside these gates can die.

That way you can't die.

"What the hell is wrong with you--callin' her sister like that," says Joel, apparently incensed as he runs a hand through his hair. "You ain't related, you ain't even look like one another--she ain't your damn family."

"Joel--"

Eric just laughs, "No--it's alright. He's right. We may not be bonded by blood, but we are bonded by fate." And then he looks at you, brushing his finger against your cheek. "An eternal family, forevermore."

Joel rolls his eyes.

*

They set you up in the largest tent inside the gates, closest to the wooden tome, and offer you a white dress befitting of some fanciful garden sprite from the medieval ages. You start changing right in front of Joel, peeling off your flannel (his flannel) before unbuckling your belt (Ellie’s belt) and undoing the button of your jeans (Dina’s jeans).

“You don’t have to do this, y’know,” says Joel, studying you from the doorway. “You could…always come back to Jackson.”

“Joel, we came all this way.”

"Never too late to change your mind."

You laugh, trying not to meet his gaze—knowing that if you do, you might actually consider it. "I mean, I know it's not perfect--but it's family--"

"This ain't family. This is a damned cult."

"Yeah? And why do you think they've outlived the best of them? Because they're a cult."

"They outlived the best of them because of _you_." He takes a seat on the stool by the doorway of your tent, rubbing his temples. "What the hell would it take for you to come back?"

The dress fits you almost too perfectly as you study yourself in the mirror. "Why are you asking this when I've already made up my mind."

And then he pauses like he's reckoning with something.

"'Cause I'm tryna imagine what life would look like without you aroun' at home," he states, chewing on his lip before meeting your gaze in the mirror with a glare. "And it's fuckin' unimaginable."

Oh.

You can feel yourself wilt as you turn around to look at him--as you feel his eyes roam the expanse of your body like he's trying to memorize every part of you before you vanish forever.

"They're just gonna have you resurrect each and every one o' them over and over again. And you're just gonna have to vanish--over and over again too. Is that really how you wanna live?"

Of course that's not how you want to live. Of course you want something else--but the alternative is so much worse. The alternative that he can never live a normal life with you hanging around. The alternative that you'd just be a damned burden with that power of yours, knowing you'd be wasting it if you kept it tucked inside yourself like a secret no one else can know.

"Joel, please go."

He pauses again--blinking. He looks like he can't believe it, and for the record, neither can you.

"You're sure about this," he says.

You nod.

He takes a breath, "Alright then."

*

There must be 50 people living inside these gates. He wonders just how many times you've brought them back--how many times you've disappeared only to reappear months later living the death they should've been living.

"We thank you for bringing our sister home," says Eric, smiling. "If you should find her again, we hope you bring her back."

Joel scowls, studying the uninspiring village like he's studying a textbook. Children frolicking across desert land, empty plots of housing, a little makeshift park made of cardboard boxes. He studies everything with a discerning eye _just in case_ , trying to memorize all the passages and side streets from the main road that he might need to know.

And then he pauses, glancing over his shoulder at the wooden tome and the bodies hanging in a row.

So this is how it goes. They sacrifice the weak, resurrect the old, keep the family eternal, and then you lose your memories over and over again. Rewind, repeat.

It's a strange phenomenon, one that he's already accepted as truth. Because you brought him from death and back--and though he never told you, he remembers it like yesterday. The warmth of life seeping through his fingertips before they met his blood--his heart. And suddenly he was looking up at you while you vanished before him like sand blown away by the winds of change forevermore.

“Was actually thinkin’ I could stay the night,” says Joel, pausing at his horse as he comes to a stop outside the gates. “At least until mornin’ comes. Dangerous hour to be travelin’ alone.”

Eric smiles that broken smile of his, “Afraid that won’t do. We’ve no empty cots for you, stranger.”

And just like that, the gates come to a close and Joel is left outside with his horse, a shotgun, and a boat of regrets he’ll probably never take back.

*

There's a clicker screeching before the tome, tied up against the post.

Eric leads you to her, "This is mother."

"Mother," repeats the others gathered at the square.

"Jesus," you mutter, staring at them like they're the sideshow freaks at an otherwise very uneventful circus act.

"Jesus," they repeat.

 _'What the fuck_ ,' you think, shifting your gaze back to the clicker on the post, writhing and screeching--it's so animalistic and desperate you wince. This is really weird. Like, really, really weird. Like, OK cults are innately really weird but this is a different realm of weird-weird. You thought you might enjoy the power trip, but now you just feel scared. You'd venture to say you kind of hate it now that all these eyes are staring at you.

 _'I'm going to disappear after_ this,' you think and you can practically taste the rancidness of the realization as you study the clicker before you.

But that's how it is. This is your fate. It's your chosen life.

You lower your hand, hovering over the clicker's face as it thrashes about, desperate to break through. You take a breath--

Gunshots sound off into the distance. You can hear the cries of men, more gunshots, then silence.

Before you can even digest what's going on, everyone in the square _scatters_.

It's chaos, as people push right past you--as Eric makes a bee-line for you, telling you to follow him as children start crying all around you. You look back at the clicker, still thrashing about, and wonder what the hell is going on.

But deep inside, you already know. You already know and all you can feel is _relief_.

"The clicker--"

"--this takes precedence," says Eric, cradling your hand like it's precious cargo. And it makes you realize it's because _you **are** precious cargo_. A commodity worth sacrificing lives for.

You fall silent as he guides you past a child screaming for his mom. Quiet as you are, he whisks you away quickly--past the tents, past the road, towards the stable where--

He's promptly met with a punch to the face.

It's Joel.

But he's immediately swarmed by two others in white robes--one who pins him down onto his chest while the other holds a dagger to his neck.

"J--"

"Wait!" You yell, coming down to Eric's side (he's completely knocked out)--trying to show your sincerity. You look at one of the white robes, the one who's carrying the blade. "Let me..." A pause, as you rack your brain for the right words. "...brother?"

Joel grunts as the white robe considers it, glancing at his counterpart before handing you the dagger.

Your hands are shaking as you reach for it, gripping onto the handle so tight your knuckles turn white.

_It was us or them._

_Seems to me like it was always you_.

It's them, you realize.

Them or Joel.

As soon as the white robe loosens his grip on Joel's back, you tackle him with all your weight, jamming the blade into his neck--over and over, _over and over_ until blood is splattering your dress with the weight of a geiser. He's hissing to breathe underneath your weight, but whatever life is left completely shrivels up.

But you can't stop--it's mechanical, as tears well up in your eyes--and only when you feel someone rip that dagger away do you realize it's Joel.

You're crying--you're sobbing--and he picks you up onto your feet as you weep away into his shoulder, "We're leaving," he whispers, as the entire world inside these gates burn to ash.

The last thing you see is that wooden tome, fire blazing through it like oil, as it collapses into itself and falls apart.

"We're going home."

*

There's nothing left of the village by the time you leave. Everything burns. _Everyone_ burns. The lock on the door is proof of that. Never mind Eric, you haven't even reconciled with the fact that there had been children inside those gates.

Or were they really children? Or were they just beneficiaries of your power?

“Joel, stop."

“We have to keep movin’," he says.

“Joel, please. You’re hurt.”

For whatever reason, he listens, reining his horse to a halt outside an old abandoned motel sitting quietly at the side of the road. He dismounts first before helping you down, and it isn’t until you see his knees buckle that you realize the severity of the wound.

Two of his fingers are gone. It's still fresh, blood gushing out--fingers turning purple. It's bad. You know instinctively if you go on like this, he's probably going to have to amputate his hand altogether.

“It’s getting worse,” you mumble, studying it.

But apparently he's already moved on. "Just--we're taking one break and then we keep movin', alright?"

"Joel."

" _What_."

You grab him by the arm, forcing him to meet your gaze, "They cut your fingers off--"

"You don't think I know that?"

"I can help you."

He starts down the hall, checking each room before deciding on the quietest one at the far end where the lock still works. "Yeah, and lose your damn memories again, right?" He says, each word a bitter tang as he ushers you in before shutting it completely. "You can forget about it. They're just two fingers."

"You'll never be able to do anything--hold a gun, woodwork, play guitar--"

"It doesn't matter," he mumbles, taking a seat on the bed.

" _Why do you keep saying that_ ," you hiss, kneeling before him. "Let me help you--"

"It doesn't matter because I'd have you," he hisses right back. "I lost two fingers--it's not the end of the world."

You clutch your head, letting out a groan as you take his hands in yours--his bloodied hands. "What the hell is wrong with you that you won't just admit you like me--instead you follow me all the way to Vegas, take me to my 'family' and then proceed to shoot them all up. Just fucking admit that you like me, you moronic oa--"

"I love you."

And then suddenly his lips are crashing onto yours--you go flying back onto the ground as his tongue swirls inside your mouth. It's a desperate, needy kiss, one that tastes a lot like old cigarettes. You wind your hand through his hair, pulling back and taking a breath.

The faintest flicker of a smile appears on his face as he meets your gaze. "Sorry it took me so long," he says--but your eyes are already filling with tears.

The wound's beginning to fold into itself--layers of bone, flesh, _skin_. He starts looking younger--the grays vanishing form his hair, the wrinkles filling in from his eyes. (You get a little greedy about it, but you decide not to play too much as you come to a stop.)

"No, no, no, no--" Joel sits up, clutching his hand to his chest. "What did you do--why did you--"

"My turn to talk," you interject, crawling to your knees. "Like I was saying earlier--I didn't wish for Maui, right? Or LA--"

You're vanishing.

"Are you kiddin' me?" He glares at you. "You--fuck. Can you at least just shut up and let me kiss you 'fore you disappear?"

"No, asshole. I need to tell you this," you take a breath, meeting his gaze again. "So...I didn't wish for a beach."

Which makes sense, because you can't swim.

Which makes sense, because you never ended up near one anyway.

Which makes sense, because all you can think about are the trees and how beautiful they are.

"I wished for home," you whisper, tears coming down your cheeks. "I guess that meant it was you."

And then you're gone.

Joel reaches out to catch you, but there's nothing's left except your dress.

No proof of your existence, except for this life you've given him.

*

_**6 months later** _

_*_

"He's been takin' the same damn patrol with me every day. I caught him nappin' last time, having the time of his life by the strea--"

" _Shhhh--"_

Tommy immediately silences one of the new recruits, catching sight of Joel by the entrance of the stables. "Hey, big brother--you headin' out now?"

"Yeah." His answers are curter these days as he mounts his mare. "Be back by sundown."

He doesn't miss the spare change of clothes he secures to the back of the horse. An old flannel, a pair of pants, and some old sneakers that probably belong to Ellie.

"Don't be late--Maria wants you over for dinner," says Tommy.

The "sure" that comes under his breath is cold and indifferent as he rides out.

"He's just havin' a hard time lately," Tommy says, turning back to the recruit once his older brother is out of sight. "Don't mind him--he'll get back to his old self in no time." But truthfully, he's not sure if he's saying it for his sake or Joel's.

For the record, Joel Miller is doing just fine. After Vegas, he returns to his old routine--dusts off his those guitars sitting in storage--and goes about his day like nothing has changed.

And sure, he's getting a little tired of patrol, but this route is his favorite one--what with all the trees turning brown in time for autumn and the summer breeze turning cool with the season. (He starts out bringing shorts and a t-shirt, but now he's bringing a flannel and jeans.) The best part of this gig? Not a clicker or runner in sight because it involves scaling two cliffs to get to.

So yes, he takes a seat next to the bank of the stream, underneath his favorite oak tree--and kicks back to wait.

Sometimes he naps too.

*

You're falling.

All these colors are whizzing past you at the speed of light, and it isn't until you see the sky that you realize you're _falling-falling_.

" _Oof_."

You land yourself in a pile of leaves--crunching underneath your weight as you sit up and take stock of your surroundings: a stream rushing through the valley, innumerable trees, and the sounds of birds singing in the distance.

Oh, and there's a body underneath one of those old oaks. Snoring away.

Next to him are some clothes--a flannel, a pair of jeans, and some sneakers.

You smile.

*

"Hey, you shouldn't be sleepin' out here. Gonna get yourself sick like that."

Joel jerks awake, hand instinctively reaching for the holster of his gun, only to see you standing before him with a slack-jawed grin.

"Y-you--"

"Pretty good impression, right?" You beam. But he just stares at you like he's looking at some alien entity from outer space (which you might as well be, considering how you fell). "Hello? Earth to Joel-fucking-Miller, do you copy?"

"You remember my name?"

You snort, "How could I forget--we practically lived togeth-- ** _oof_**."

In an instant, he tackles you in a hug--and the two of you go tumbling backwards into the stream below.

*

You get a serious bout of dejavu as you come walking down the main road of Jackson, soaking wet to the core, wearing his brown suede jacket (dry) over your very wet and naked body, as you start fielding all sorts of weird looks from the people who live here.

"Well, at least you remember you still don't know how to swim," says Joel, handing off his horse to the stableboy before jogging to catch up with you.

"Hardy-har-har, very funny," you state, passing right by his house only for him to catch you by the wrist.

"Let's get you washed up first," he says.

"But Ellie and Tommy--"

"--they can wait," he says, and you don't miss the smile on his face when he hears you say those names because apparently _you remember_ _everything_.

You study his face--his beard looks a little neater today. Go figure. "I should at least go and say hi first. I haven't seen them in six months. They probably think I'm dead," you say, trying to tug away to no avail whatsoever as he keeps his hand latched onto your wrist.

"Forget them, alright?" He drags you up the steps of his porch. "I just want you for myself for now."

Your face immediately flushes red as you lose whatever fight you have, following him through the front door--straight to the bathroom where you leave his jacket in a crumpled heap on the floor. You start the water (it's cold) and you step in first.

The door opens--and your heart skips a beat because your automatic assumption is always fucking danger, but when you see it's Joel, you feel a smile break on your face.

"Mind if I join you?"

But he's already unbuttoning his shirt--followed by his belt too.

One thing leads to another--he's kissing you under the water--and at some point, you find yourself wrapping your legs around him as he carries you out the bathroom, into the bedroom, where he starts eating you out like you're the last thing he's ever going to taste. You cum fast (six months in limbo will do that to you), and then he goes for round two because you "can handle it" as he put so eloquently.

At whatever point, he's inside you--and you never thought romantic sex was a thing until he starts fucking you slow and careful like you might break under his touch if he goes too fast. He can't stop kissing, tasting your skin, and when he cums inside you--you're so doped up on the adrenaline rush you start crying.

And sure, you can't really remember a time before Joel, but you never thought you'd be a crier either. But he consoles you, presses kisses, tells you how much he loves you--how much he's wanted to see you, and how much he wishes he could protect you forevermore.

Both of you are dripping wet in the aftermath--so are your bedsheets, for that matter, as you look each other with so much love you could probably burst. He keeps touching your face, calloused thumbs brushing against your skin--and you think you might like the way they feel.

"You keep staring," you murmur. "You know I'm not going anywhere, right?"

He presses a kiss to your forehead, "I know."

For a moment, you pause, lowering your gaze to his chest--brushing your fingers against all his chest hair only to settle on the bulge of his biceps. "So why do you keep looking," you say, feeling really awkward about his neverending gaze.

He pauses, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. "Prol'ly 'cause I feel like if I look away you might disappear."

Again, you blush--because he's being totally transparent and sincere about it. "You say the cutest things without even knowing it, old man."

"Trust me, I know when I'm bein' cute."

And it goes like for a while--until you tell him you need to stop by Tommy and Ellie's place--but he grabs you before you can get up. "Just a little longer," he says, and you bury your face into the crook of his neck, wishing this moment would never end.

*

But life goes on.

You have responsibilities--other relationships to worry about. So eventually you peel yourself away from him, get up, and start dressing yourself. "I think--when we burned down Hawthorne, you ended up burning down the source of those powers too," you explain, slipping on your jeans. "That tome--remember?"

"Uh-huh. Right."

He doesn't care. He's just glad to have you back, circumstances be damned. But you care. Because it means something you haven't considered yet.

"Joel."

"What."

"I--come here," you tell him, patting the empty space next to you on the bed. "I'm gonna try something."

He obeys, taking a seat next to you before surprise-pecking your cheek with a kiss. "OK--what're we doin'."

You reach your hand out and take a breath. He grabs your wrist before you can try.

"Joel."

"What the hell are you doin'? Not this shit aga--"

But nothing happens.

Nothing changes.

"It's gone," you tell him. "I--I can't do it anymore."

And then he's silent, "Well, holy shit."

Immediately your eyes flush with tears--hot, hot tears as you cradle your own face in your hands. "It's actually gone--I'm normal," you whisper, and you feel a pair of strong arms wrap around you in a hug. "This is why I can remember who you are--this is why I remember Jackson."

It's why you remember home.

For a while, he just holds you as you weep into his arms, feeling the weight of the world lift from your shoulders as you try and accept the reality of your situation. No more obligations, no more responsibilities bigger than yourself.

You can truly, truly live now.

"What does that make us," you mumble into his shoulder, once you catch your breath.

Joel pulls back, pressing a kiss to your tearstained cheek. "Let's get married."

"Aren't you supposed to propose first?"

"Don't wanna waste any time."

"Oh, _now_ time is an issue for you." Still, you smile wryly. "Marriage, huh. I guess that wouldn't be too bad. It's going to be really awkward trying to explain the cousin thing. But I guess it's not that weird where you come from."

"Why do you always assume I'm from bumblefuck nowhere," he sighs. "I'm from--"

"Austin. I know."

You lean in and press a kiss to his lips--a kiss that devolves into at least a dozen more as you feel the brush of his beard against your skin. He falls back into the mattress and you keep it up--because for the first time in a long time, you start seeing something other than cults, blood, and death.

You see a future.

* * *

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHECKS OFF ANOTHER COMPLETED STORY WOOT
> 
> i have some ideas for an epilogue but it literally just involves joel smoking weED AND THAT'S NOT ENOUGH TO SUSTAIN A WHOLE EPILOGUE ..... well, maybe??.....haha jk...... unless ?
> 
> im on [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt) if you wanna talk about my husband joel miller yes YES YESSSSSS


	4. sidequest unlocked: joel gets high

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just wanted to put this up for the heck of it because i'm still thinking about joel

“OK. I think I’m feeling it.”

Joel sighs, “Don’t you do this enough that you should—”

“ _Shhhhhhh_.” You slap your hand over his mouth, squinting out into the distance where you think you see a pig walking on its hind legs. Wait, it’s a dog. But it’s not moving. Just. Sitting there. Oh. Oh wait. It's not a dog. It’s a boulder. Fuck. “Never mind.”

“Never mind wha—”

“ _Shhhhhhhhhhhut up for a sec_.” You flop onto your back, staring up at the leaves, trying not to marvel at your own stupidity. “I thought I saw a dog.”

He looks up, "Where?"

"It's a boulder."

"You mean a dog-lookin' boulder?"

"No, I mean a boulder."

"That makes no sense."

"It does to me."

He shrugs.

When you turn over to look at him, you realize his eyes are completely bloodshot. You snort. “Oh my god you look awful.”

"You ain't lookin' much better, sweetheart."

"At least I'm cute."

He closes his eyes, "I can be cute too."

"Yeah, but you look faded."

“Dunno what you’re talkin’ ‘bout. I ain’t feel a thing.”

“That dumb smile on your face would say otherwise,” you whisper, not really sure why you’re whispering but doing it for the hell of it anyway.

“Joel.”

“Yes?”

“I have a question.”

“OK, shoot.”

“But it’s not that simple.”

“Then I think you’re askin’ the wrong person.”

“But it’s something you should know,” you go on, taking a breath. “When I asked Tommy, he thought I was joking so I just laughed along and pretended like I was.” And then you meet his gaze, turning over one cheek, pressing up against the picnic mat. “No judgment, please. I’m asking nicely.”

He chuckles, turning onto his side to face you too, “You could ask me the spell the ABCs—wouldn’t change a thing.”

“You say that, but I don’t really think you mean it."

"Well, I think I do. I would know. That's why I said it."

You huff.

He reaches out and brushes a lock of hair away from your face. Gentle and slow, just enough for you to feel the calluses on his fingertips, “Just ask the damn question ‘fore I change my mind—or fall asleep.” Amazing how he can do something so considerate and say the complete opposite at the same time.

“OK.” You take another breath, meeting his gaze. “You know those…air conditioning units?”

“Yeah?”

“How come…you can’t just plug it in and call it a day?”

“What d’ya mean—you _do_ plug it in and—”

“No, but, like, why do you need to set it up on a window and stuff? It just seems like more trouble than it’s worth. Why didn’t people just keep it on their floors to save the hassle of hiring someone to install it for you?”

He pauses, thinking. Looking at you with all the concern in the world. “You’re right—that is a stupid question.”

“You’re the worst,” you frown, ready to turn away just as he pulls you right into his arms. He gives you a squeeze so tight you can feel the blood rush into your face. “Anyway, should we go? I said I’d make dinner for Ellie tonight.”

“Just a little longer,” he says, exhaling into your hair. “I like the way you feel in my arms.”

You sigh, feeling whatever anxieties melt away when he cards his fingers through your hair. It’s a pretty amazing thing, knowing that this is probably the safest place in the world; and when you close your eyes and try to imagine what it’d be like to stay here forever, you realize it wouldn’t be half bad.

*

“Are you guys…high?”

You look at Joel for an answer. He shakes his head, purses his lips. It's fine, though. The two of you are on the same exact wavelength. At this point, you'd venture to say your minds are telepathic. So you answer in simultaneous wonder:

“Yes, we are.” “No, we ain’t.”

He tries not to bury his face into the palm of his hand.

You beam at Ellie, who snorts. She tells you you guys are cute. Stupid, but cute. You count that as a win in your book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short & sweet
> 
> idk if anyone actually reads these notes but i am taking some time to work on some original writing so that's probably why you haven't seen my ~weekly~ updates. wouldn't call it a break/hiatus, but it does explain the change in my normal cadence of updates. anyway thank you for sticking wif me and u can always follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt) if u wish!


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